Boys' Nights
by kers
Summary: Don and Charlie are up late, and it's becoming a running theme.
1. Chapter 1

**Boys' Nights**

**Chapter 1**

"Donnie, why don't you just stay the night?" Alan nagged good-naturedly when the baseball game finally concluded well after eleven.

Don held his hand up. "Nah, Dad, I've got to—" Alan disappeared upstairs and reappeared a moment later with a small canvas bag and a crisp white shirt on a wooden hanger.

"Oh, I forget about—"

"The overnight kit!" finished his father triumphantly.

Don glanced at Charlie, curled up in the oversized reading chair.

"He'll be fine there," Alan reassured Don. "You can sleep in his room or take the couch. Your old room has been annexed by white boards." He motioned to Charlie.

Don's will began to break. "All right, but only because I want to get into the office early and it's so late now."

"Of course," Alan said, humoring him.

They watched the conclusion of the eleven-o'clock news and finished their beers, then Alan went upstairs. Thinking that Charlie might wake up during the night and return to his room, Don curled up with an afghan on the couch. In the dark he lay awake and listened to the comforting sounds of his father getting ready for bed. Living alone, he missed hearing other people.

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Don woke with a violent start. Such sudden awakenings had become routine since he began working for the Bureau. Because he didn't know what had woken him, he didn't lift his head, using his eyes and ears to quickly scan for information. _Couch. Dad's. Night. Someone making noises. Light. From the kitchen. _Judging the situation to be safe, he turned over and craned his neck. Charlie was seated at the dining room table, head bent low over a notebook and his pen scrawling across it rapidly. He paused and banged his hand against his forehead, then pulled at his hair in frustration.

"Charlie," said Don in a sleepy voice as he struggled into a sitting position. Charlie continued to work, oblivious. Don rubbed at his face and searched for the clock. 2:17. "Charlie," he said again, louder this time.

Charlie looked up, pen still racing across the paper. "Oh," he said, surprised. "Don."

"What are you doing, man?" Don got to his feet and trudged over to Charlie, still rubbing at his face.

"Just…stuff. Thinking."

Don stood behind his brother, hand on his shoulder. "Oh yeah?"

Charlie put his hands across his notebook, turned to look at Don, thought better of it, and shut the notebook.

This piqued Don's interest. Charlie usually needed no prompting to share his work, even in the middle of the night. "Charlie, buddy, it's two in the morning. What're you doing?"

Charlie dodged the question. "I didn't mean to wake you," he apologized.

"No, you're fine," reassured Don. "I wake up like that all the time."

Charlie's fuzzy eyebrows went up.

"F.B.I. thing," Done explained. "It's my heightened spidey-sense." Charlie grinned at him. "Listen," Don said, "Stop working. Let's turn the t.v. on, fall asleep to a monster flick like we used to."

Charlie hesitated.

"Come on," wheedled Don.

Charlie slid his notebook to the side and stood up. "All right," he acquiesced. They settled onto opposite sides of the couch and Don found a time-machine movie that included dinosaurs and howitzers. Turning the volume low, Don settled himself against the arm of the couch and heard Charlie do the same on the other end,

"Don?" Charlie's voice was quiet, but it still brought Don out of his drifting slumber. Don flipped himself onto his back so he could see Charlie in the dim light of the television. "Yeah?"

There was a lengthy silence. Don knew Charlie was debating whether or not to continue his thought. Don prompted him again. "What, buddy?"

"Do you think about Mom a lot?"

The question took Don off guard and he stammered for a moment. "Well—yeah—sure, of course I do." His so-called 'spidey-sense' kicking into 'big-brother' mode, Don became immediately concerned about his younger brother. "Why? What's going on in your head, Charlie?"

"Nothing," Charlie quickly answered. "I'm just thinking out loud."

"Is that why you're up?" Don thought back on recent weeks. "Have you been dreaming about her again?"

"No," said Charlie sadly, "Not since the pancakes dream."

Don sat up, genuinely intrigued. He didn't speak, knowing from experience that Charlie needed the quiet to gather both his words and the momentum to continue.

"I just think about her at night, that's all," said Charlie in a distracted voice.

Don settled against the couch. If there was more to this, Charlie wasn't going to share it tonight. "You know what I miss?" Don asked, shutting his eyes. Charlie grunted. "Hearing her laugh…You 'member that cookout, the Memorial Day before we went to college? God, that was a good day. The picnic. We ran sack races and she was just hysterical from watching us." Don smiled at the memory of her bright face, eyes squinting in the sunlight. On the other end of the couch, Charlie sniffed back tears. Don tapped him with one foot. "Hey, buddy," he said, trying to sound comforting as he pulled himself into a more upright position. "It's okay to miss her."

"You think I don't know that?" Charlie was suddenly angry. "I miss her every day. I wake up and feel the hole where she used to be. I _know_ it's okay to miss her."

Don was taken aback. Charlie was striking back like an injured animal, like he'd been nursing a wound and Don had just poked it. "You talked to anybody about it?" He tried to sound nonchalant.

"Nobody wants to hear this. Nobody needs to hear about it," Charlie reasoned. "I'm supposed to 'move on,' right?"

"Yeah, but—" Don tried. He stopped himself and thought about what he wanted to say. "You can move on without leaving her behind."

"Oh, is that what you've done?" taunted Charlie, bitterly amused.

"No, I'm exercising my G-man's right to emotional compartmentalization," cracked Don truthfully. He had more insight into his psyche than people gave him credit for.

"I can't do that." Charlie's voice was dejected. "I can't get away from it."

"Why should you want to?" asked Don. "You're probably better off than me. We need to face it."

"No," explained Charlie, "all I do is face it. I can't stop thinking about her."

"It'll get better," Don counseled, although he honestly wondered if that was true. After several years, shouldn't Charlie be adjusting better?

"Yeah." Charlie sounded unconvinced.

"Don't spend so much time in your head, Charlie." Don yawned, sleepy again. "Come out and join the rest of us."

Charlie grinned back at him and curled up on the other side of the couch. Images of his mother rolling in his head, Don fell asleep to the sound of his brother's slow, steady breaths.

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Please give me feedback so I can get better! Thanks for reading.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

The next morning, Don woke with a painful crick in his neck. He came awake instantly, as he always did now, suddenly aware that he was warm from the afghan around his body and from the sunlight streaming over him. Dishes were clattering in the kitchen and a pan was sizzling; his father was cooking breakfast. The scent of coffee was in the air. He heard Charlie cough and Don sat up, rubbing his neck, looking across the sofa to his brother.

Charlie was still curled up in a tight ball, his upper body upturned like a cat's, his head nearly upside down with his long hair frizzed out in a halo. He squeezed his eyes more tightly shut and brought one hand up to shield him from the sunlight.

_Time. Time?_ Don's mind kicked into its typical workday focus.

Alan, as always, knew his sons well. "Rise and shine, young Eppeses! It's quarter to six and breakfast is nearly done!"

"First shower," groaned Charlie, scratching at his stubbly cheeks.

"Not if I get it first," warned Don, tossing the afghan off. Stiff from sleep, his legs moved slowly, but when he heard Charlie staggering along behind him, he sped his pace. They took the stairs with elbows at each other's sides, but Don beat Charlie to the bathroom by one long stride. He turned and slammed the door triumphantly.

"You had a head start!" Charlie called from the hallway.

His stomach rumbling, Don hurried through his morning routine. When he emerged, towel around his waist, Charlie was sprawled on the floor in the hallway, head against the wall, eyes shut. Don poked at his brother with a slick foot. "I'm done," he said, padding downstairs to get the shirt he had forgotten.

The bathroom door shut, but as Don came back up the stairs he heard Charlie yell, "Don! That was the last towel!" Don grabbed a clean towel from the stack in the linen closet, opened the bathroom door, and tossed it inside. "Thanks," came Charlie's muffled reply.

Don was straightening his tie as he descended the stairs when a towel-clad Charlie emerged from the bathroom. "Thanks for using all the hot water," he groused, splattering water on the floor as he tramped to his room.

"No problem, Buddy," Don called back with a grin.

In the kitchen, Alan had three plates of toast and eggs set out and was pouring coffee into fat mugs. "Oh, thanks, Dad," Don said gratefully. "This looks great."

"Well," Alan said with a pleased smile, "it's not every day I have both my boys here for breakfast. Although I'd nearly forgotten what it sounded like for you two to bicker over the bathroom."

Don ignored him, scarfing down several forkfuls of eggs instead. Charlie joined them a moment later, damp spots on his t-shirt from his sopping hair.

"Didn't feel like you needed to dry off?" cracked Don dryly.

Charlie shot him a withering look. "Breakfast first," he explained sharply. Alan scooped more eggs onto Don's plate. "So, Charlie, are you liking that…topography class you're teaching any better now?"

"Algebraic topology," Charlie corrected with a grin. "And yeah, it's gotten better as the students saw more of the value in its applications. I think one student might even complete an independent study to do some research with me next semester," Charlie enthused.

"Oh yeah?" asked Alan.

"Yeah. We want to explore the relevance of Koster's recent work. For example…"

As Charlie explained his interest, Don watched his brother closely. All traces of his morose behavior from the night before were gone. _Curiouser and curiouser_, thought Don.

Realizing that Charlie had concluded his explanation, Don asked, "What're you up to today, Dad?"

"Actually," said Alan with pride, "I have a chess tournament today, in the park. I'm going with Chris Martinez."

"The financial analyst from over on Grenadier Ave.?" asked Charlie.

"Yeah, that's the one. We ended up playing each other last weekend and I think we'll do well."

"When did you become such a grand master?" questioned Don.

"He's been joining a couple of matches a week all spring," Charlie explained gently.

"Oh," said Don, feeling a little like he'd been dressed down for his lack of involvement with his family.

"Now, Charlie," mediated Alan, "I don't think I ever mentioned it to Don."

"Mmm," murmured Charlie, unconvinced. Don shot him a warning look. It was too early to fight.

Don shoveled the last of his eggs into his mouth and took a final swig of coffee. "Thanks for breakfast, Dad," he said, taking his dishes over to the sink. "Give me a call and let me know how the tourney pans out." Feeling Charlie's eyes on him, a thought sparked. "Hey Charlie, when's your next seminar for non-mathematicians?"

"Friday…" said Charlie slowly, suspiciously.

Don put his rinsed dishes in the dishwasher and cast about for a towel. There was a rag pushed through the refrigerator handle. "Mind if I come?" Don asked, drying his hands.

"No, not at all," replied Charlie, surprised. "I've prepared a lecture on the basic principles of mathematical finance. It's partly a plug for a course the department is offering next semester, to drum up interest." Charlie was off and running. "I'm especially excited about introducing students to the idea of using stochastic calculus in predicting stock prices."

Don nodded as though he had understood. "I'm there," he said decisively. He took one last sip of coffee and grabbed his keys off the kitchen counter, pointing at Charlie with the coffee mug. "See you Friday, then?"

Charlie nodded, eyebrows up, sipping at his own coffee and watching Don rush out the door. Alan mused, "Do you think he ever stops running off to do something?"

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Three days later, Don was sitting in the back of a mid-sized auditorium classroom with perhaps thirty students scattered about. He cut out of work an hour early to make it to the class. Megan gave him a curious, then concerned look when he informed her of his schedule change, but Don didn't feel like entering a discussion about his brother's well being or his desire to maintain their connection outside of work. He gave his partner a steely-eyed look and she dropped the subject with a smile.

While their father often attended Charlie's public lectures, Don rarely found the time to. This, he had to admit, was in large part because he didn't like feeling that he didn't understand or couldn't keep up, which was often the case about halfway into these lectures, even if they were designed for laymen like himself. He didn't like to be reminded that there were things he couldn't do.

However, he told himself, this gave him the chance to observe Charlie in his most comfortable environment. He had to admit that Charlie had a real talent for teaching. His love of the material shone through, of course, but so did his genuine desire to help others understand it. It was all the intensity of Charlie's P vs. NP work with none of the insanity.

"Yes, Mr. Montoya, that's it exactly!" exclaimed Charlie in response to one student's query. He punctuated his statement with a fist to the air. "Welcome to financial mathematics—now see, it wasn't nearly as terrifying as you'd heard, right?" He shot the kid a charming grin and the student smiled back with pride.

"Dr. Eppes?" asked a redheaded girl from three rows back. "I don't understand how you finished that problem." She giggled self-consciously. "I guess I don't quite get financial math. Can you go back, like, two steps?"

"Sure," said Charlie smoothly, "those are the two hardest parts to grasp conceptually and apply practically. If we step back and look at the assumption…" Don quickly lost track of Charlie's words. He was impressed by the way his brother made the students feel comfortable with their confusion.

He turned his attention to the students, who tracked his brother's movements closely while they scribbled notes and, occasionally, looked puzzled and stuck their hands in the air. It was interesting to see Charlie moving and speaking with such confidence. Of course, he did that too when he worked at the Bureau, but the atmosphere here was less pedantic. Charlie was not just explaining his work; he was helping his students do it.

Don waited nearly twenty minutes after the lecture for Charlie to finish talking with students. "No, really, Paul," his brother told the young man who'd had the revelation of understanding earlier, "I hope you'll take the plunge and sign up for the class. You're very capable in this area and I think you'd enjoy the challenge."

"Maybe, Dr. Eppes. I'll at least try it, okay?"

"Great!" yelped Charlie. "Another convert."

While his brother gathered his loose notes, folders, and notebooks. Don moved forward. "Hey, that was pretty cool," raved Don.

"Oh, thanks," said Charlie with a pleased grin.

"It was neat to see you in action. I'm so used to seeing you as a consultant, a colleague, that I guess I forget you're a teacher, too." Then he added, "And a damn good one, too!"

Charlie's face broke wide open and Don chucked him on the shoulder.

"Come on, get your stuff. I'll drive you home."

"You just want a free dinner."

"Well yeah, that's a nice bonus," laughed Don.

The drive from Cal Sci to Charlie's house was not a long one, but Charlie fell asleep almost instantly. Done stole looks from the road to glance at his brother. Charlie didn't even move when Don bumped the car into the driveway and put it into park.

"Hey, buddy," he said quietly, shaking Charlie's knee. "Come on, let's go, we're home." He shook harder and Charlie began to stir, twitching his arms and legs. Don was ready to get out of the car and into the house, but it took Charlie several more moments to open his eyes. Don stared at him quizzically. "You sick, Charlie?"

Charlie looked confused. "No—" he yawned—" why?"

"You're so tired—"

"Oh, I was up late last night."

"New problem?"

"Not really. I'm just not so tired lately."

Don was puzzled. Clearly, his brother _was_ tired. And not willing to explain why. Don was out of the car and halfway up the stairs to the house before he realized Charlie was lagging behind him. He waited, holding the door open, for his brother to catch up.

"Hey Dad, we're home!" he hollered into the house. Once inside, Charlie made a beeline for the couch, where he flopped, facedown, with his feet hanging off the edge.

"Donnie!" His father came out of the kitchen, drying his hands on a dishtowel. "I didn't know you were coming by."

"I got off early to sit in on Charlie's lecture," Don explained, "and thought I'd drive him home."

"Yeah," his father scoffed, "and you thought you'd catch a nice brisket, too!"

"Well..." laughed Don.

Alan gestured at his younger son. "Was he even awake for that lecture?"

"Yeah, but he sacked out the minute we got in the car."

"He's been up awfully late the last few weeks," Alan observed.

Don raised his eyebrows with an unspoken question, but Alan shook his head. "I don't know, some project, I suppose. Let's let him rest. Come on, dinner's almost ready and I want to tell you how Chris trounced me at that tournament."

Don followed his father into the kitchen with one backward glance at his brother.

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After finishing dinner, Don and Alan settled back at the dining room table with large mugs of coffee. It was intimate, comfortable. Although he was typically emotionally undemonstrative, Don had consciously been trying to reach out to his family more and he seized this opportunity with his father.

"You seem happy, Dad," he commented with a small, appreciative smile.

His father sat back, put his hands on the back of his head, and thought. "I am," he said with wonder. "It took me a long while to realize that being happy again wasn't a betrayal of your mother."

Don shifted awkwardly in his seat, remembering all of the times he'd caught and stepped on his own mirth out of guilt in the months following his mother's passing.

"What about you?" Alan asked with tenderness. "You seem to be doing well, but I know appearances can be deceiving, especially with my eldest."

"No, no, I'm good," Don said quickly, trying to fob his father off. He couldn't make eye contact and chomped hard on his ever-present piece of gum.

His father just watched him. Don felt like an interrogation subject. He dodged his father's attention by redirecting it—an old strategy he'd learned in high school, when he often found himself the subject of uncomfortable scrutiny. "I know Charlie still feels—well, he still misses her a lot."

"We all do," said Alan, "even you. Charlie just tends to wear his heart more on his sleeve." Don raised an eyebrow but held his tongue. "Being happy, being okay in life doesn't mean leaving your mother behind."

"I didn't say it did. Jeez, Dad, how did this turn into a psych session?"

"Simmer down," said his father evenly, "we're just talking."

Don rolled his eyes.

Charlie sat up on the couch then, stiff and bleary-eyed. "You guys fighting again?" he asked, stretching his arms in front of him.

"No," sulked Don, "we were just—"

"Having a discussion," finished his father.

"Ohh," said Charlie wisely, "I take it that Don lost this 'discussion'?"

Don sighed and pulled his phone out to check for messages.

"Did I miss—" Charlie interrupted his question with a yawn—"dinner?"

"Yep," teased Don, looking up from his phone, "so I got dibs on your plate. It was _good_!" He rubbed his stomach for effect.

Alan pulled his glasses down on his nose and eyed Don. "No," he reassured Charlie, "we've got your plate warming in the oven. Are you ready to eat?"

His son paused, considering the offer.

"Charlie, you usually don't have to think that hard about being hungry," jibed Don.

His brother's face clouded. "I'm just not real hungry."

"I'll take it out and wrap it up in the refrigerator, in case you'd like it later," said Alan, getting up from his chair.

"Thanks, Dad," said Charlie, rising from his nest on the couch. "I probably just have to wake up a little more."

Don watched skeptically as he padded into the kitchen and poured a glass of water. His normally manic brother was now moving noticeably slower—slow enough for it to catch Don's attention, but he was attuned to recognize behavioral changes. Had their father noticed, as well?

Charlie made his way upstairs and Don seized the brief opportunity as Alan returned to his chair. "Hey Dad," he asked in a quiet voice with his best offhand tone, "does he seem sick to you or something?" He jutted his chin toward the stairs.

"What? Oh, hmm," mulled Alan, "I guess a bit, maybe." He picked up the paper and Don pushed his concerns to the back of his mind, attributing Charlie's behavior to overwork and lack of sleep.

Finishing the last of the coffee in his mug, Don rose. "Enough caffeine," he said, walking to the kitchen. "It's Friday. Want a beer, dad?"

"I'm fine, thanks, Don," called Alan.

"Hey Charlie, you want a beer?" Alan hollered from the kitchen.

"Yeah, thanks," Charlie yelled back.

"Just like old times," Alan murmured with a smile, sipping on his coffee and listening to his sons shout.

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